


The Road I Walked To You

by 14hpgirl19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Counselor!John, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John cares about Sherlock so much, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14hpgirl19/pseuds/14hpgirl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been banished to a rehabilitation camp for the summer. He's not pleased.</p><p>John Watson is a counselor at the rehab camp his sister is attending. He's wary, but excited.</p><p>The two boys couldn't be more different. That's why they're perfect for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road I Walked To You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for fuckyeahteenlock's Summer Camp Contest! I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I'm American, so I apologize for any non-British spelling/terms.
> 
> Also, just FYI, Sherlock is fifteen and John is sixteen.

The sun was too bright.

Stepping out of the black car, Sherlock Holmes squinted as he took in his surroundings. Teenagers milled about on the lawn before him, a vast majority looking just as repulsed as he felt. Most of them were making a last-ditch attempt to convince their parents to take them home, while a small few had already accepted their fate and were dutifully lugging trunks and bags into picturesque cabins.

 _Hateful,_ Sherlock thought. _Every bit of it._

Less than a minute in, and he was already plotting his escape.

“This is for your own good, brother mine.” Sherlock gritted his teeth as his annoyingly omnipresent brother appeared at his side. His fist itched to make contact with Mycroft’s jaw.

“I don’t see how. The only thing this place will do is make me die from boredom. Or idiocy. Both are strong possibilities.”

Mycroft sighed. “You still don’t understand.”                            

Sherlock’s response was quick and acidic. “Right, because I’m the dimwitted brother.”

Both Holmes boys knew Sherlock was far from dimwitted, but that wasn’t the point. It was just another taunt for Sherlock to lob at Mycroft.

"It’s only for seven weeks.”

“That’s most of the summer.”

“You don’t even like the summer holidays.”

Sherlock dug the toe of his shoe into the ground. “It’s better than school.”

Mycroft sighed again. Sherlock wished he wouldn’t. “There’s no use in arguing against it. You’re attending this camp, and that is final.”

Sherlock looked up at him. At twenty-two, Mycroft’s appearance gave the impression he was much older than he was. Sherlock took pleasure in teasing him about it.

"I don’t have a problem.”

“Your trip to the hospital last month says otherwise.” Mycroft’s expression turned slightly sad, and Sherlock scoffed. For the past few years, Mycroft had touted that sentiment was abhorrent and should be avoided at all costs. And yet, here he was, betraying his own philosophy.

_Hateful._

_"_ This _camp,_ ” Sherlock spat the word as though it tasted bitter, “won’t change a thing. _I’m_ not going to change.”

Mycroft handed Sherlock his bag. “We shall see.”

<><><> 

If John Watson had met Mycroft Holmes on that very same day, they might’ve gotten along. Shared experiences tended to bond people, and at that moment in time, they both had a lot in common.

“Your sister is one of the campers, right?” Greg Lestrade asked him as they unpacked their things in the counselors’ cabin. John stilled in the process of putting his sheets on his bed.

“Yeah,” he said carefully. “How’d you know that?”

Greg held his hands up. “I just saw her talking to you earlier. I swear I didn’t stalk you, or something.”

John forced himself to relax and gave Greg an easy smile. “’s alright. People are bound to find out soon enough.” It wasn’t a terribly big camp, after all. And there were only a handful of counselors.

“Can I ask what her thing is?” Greg tucked a couple books into his cubby and eyed John cautiously. John was proud of himself for not automatically tensing.

"Alcohol,” he replied. “It’s gone on for two years now.”

Greg nodded sympathetically and continued to work through his suitcase. He wasn’t going to push it. John decided right then and there he quite liked Greg.

"How long have you been a counselor here?” John asked.

"Three years, though this will be my last. I turned eighteen last April.”

“Ah.” John hesitated before asking his next question. “Got any advice for me?”

He’d been worried about this for quite some time now, ever since he applied to be a counselor. Harry had been furious with him, but he thought it was an excellent idea. This way, he could keep a closer eye on her recovery while also learning some skills that could prove useful when he became a doctor.

This was new territory for him. He didn’t know the first thing about being a camp counselor, and he especially didn’t know how to deal with wayward teenagers. It scared him more than he cared to admit, though he already had a small idea of what to expect after living with Harry. He was prepared to endure vicious insults and stubborn demeanors, but he didn’t know how to properly address them.

“First thing to keep in mind,” Greg said, “is that they don’t think they have a problem. Their habits are little hobbies that they can quit at any time. However, if they’re here, that’s not true.”

“Got it,” John said with a nod. “So how do you respond to that?”

Greg sat down on his bed, and John hurried to copy him. “I’ve found that insisting they have a problem doesn’t work. They don’t need you to tell them what their parents have been saying for God knows how long. What they need is someone to talk to, someone who’s willing to listen.”

"Sounds simple enough.”

Greg smiled wryly. “You say that now. Just wait until your first group session.”

<><><> 

“Um, hi,” a girl with auburn hair and shredded cuticles said. “I’m Harry. I’m here because I’m an alcoholic. Supposedly.”

 _Definitely,_ Sherlock thought. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hands shook. She hadn’t had a drink in a few days, most likely due to her coming to this camp. Before she left, she’d gotten totally smashed. One last hoorah before she was sent to rehab. Sherlock couldn’t blame her. He would’ve done the same thing if Mycroft hadn’t been watching him like a hawk.

"I had my first drink when I was twelve. Nicked it from my dad. He’d just – well, he’d just died, and I thought, ‘He won’t be needing them anymore…’”

Sherlock wanted to slam his head into the wall. A textbook case of alcoholism: drinking to drown your sorrows. It was dull. In fact, every person who’d spoken in that godforsaken group session was a walking cliché. One girl started on heroin because her boyfriend dealt it. A boy took his mother’s prescription pills because he was bored. Every word out of their mouths could’ve come from a terrible television movie.

It was a tremendous waste of time.  A whole hour dedicated to talking about everyone’s problems and what brought them to this camp at this point in their lives. Sherlock could feel every mind-numbing second tick by, every moment that could’ve been spent looking for soil samples or testing the lake water. (If he was to be stuck here for seven weeks, he might as well take advantage of the area.)

He leaned back in his chair, drawing a mournful creak from it. The counselor leading the session, Greg Lestrade, fixed his gaze on Sherlock. He was interrupting Harry’s talking time with his rickety chair. In response, he slowly straightened back up, the creaking sound being getting even louder. Greg’s eyes narrowed.

The moment Harry’s time was up, Greg put his focus back on Sherlock. Sherlock stared back readily.

“What about you?” Greg asked. “What’s your story?”

Everyone in the circle looked at Sherlock. He spoke in a bored tone.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m here because my idiot brother convinced my mother I have a cocaine problem. I do not. I’m not an addict, I’m a user. The drugs help my mental capabilities, make things sharper, clearer. I help Scotland Yard solve crimes – or at least, I _would_ if they answered any of my emails. They’re all imbeciles there, I don’t know why they don’t listen to me.”

The expressions on everyone’s faces had shifted from curious to dumbfounded. Sherlock would’ve laughed if he didn’t hate every single one of them.

“So,” Greg said, “you use cocaine to solve crimes.” A few people snickered. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I don’t use it _to_ solve crimes. I can solve them without it. It just helps me solve them _faster_.”

“Right.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “But you don’t have a problem.”

"No.”

"So you could quit right now?”

“Yep.”

Greg leaned forward in his chair. “Then why don’t you?”

 _Honestly, are people really_ this _thick?_

"Because the drugs help me work."

"Yeah, I got that, but you said you could solve your crimes without the cocaine.”

"I solve them better with it.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, daring Greg to question him again.

Of course, the counselor didn’t know when to quit. Sherlock had anticipated that from the camp shirt he was wearing. It was worn and stretched out. Not from this year. This wasn’t his first time at this camp, which meant he was accustomed to campers being obstinate. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was impressed or really irritated.

"Have you ever used cocaine when you’re not on a case?”

The crook of his left elbow twinged. Sherlock gritted his teeth and suppressed the urge to rub it.

"No.”

Greg eyed him for a moment more before turning to the boy on Sherlock’s right. Sherlock slouched in his chair and pressed his right hand against the inside of his left elbow.

Thirty-seven minutes to go.

<><><> 

"I’m telling you, I’ve dealt with some really difficult campers, but this one’s in a league of his own.”

John looked up from the letter he was writing to his mum to watch Greg pace the length of their cabin. It was the fourth day of camp, just after group, and Greg had been ranting nonstop for fifteen minutes.

"Most of them don’t admit they have a problem,” John reminded him, echoing what the older counselor had said on their first day. “Of course this guy wouldn’t, especially if he’s a – what’d you call him? – a posh tosser.”

Greg dropped down onto his bed, the springs screeching in protest. “Yes, but it’s the _way_ he says it. ‘I’m a user, not an addict.’ He’s obnoxious!”

_"I’ve only seen Harry a few times, but Greg (her counselor) assures me she’s doing fine, so it’s okay.”_

John stared at the sentence for another minute before leaving it as it was. The last time he’d seen Harry was when she’d shot him a venomous glare and slammed the door to her cabin in his face. That was on the first day of camp.

But he couldn’t tell his mum he hadn’t seen her at all. She would get worried and tell John he needed to make more of an effort.  Camp had just started. He needed to give her some time. At least, that’s what Greg said.

"Withdrawal is starting to set in for him,” Greg continued, oblivious to John’s family drama. “His hands shake all the time. If he hasn’t realized he’s got a problem yet, he will soon.”

John folded up his letter and tucked it into an envelope. “If withdrawals are starting, he’s going to need someone to support him.” Just last year, John had tried to get Harry off the bottle by getting rid of every drop of alcohol in their house, and then sequestering her in her room. It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, and was actually quite harsh. But if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that a person suffering withdrawals shouldn’t do it alone.

"He won’t accept help,” Greg said. “He’s too proud.”

"You should try anyway.”

Greg stared at him in dismay. “Haven’t you been listening? I’ve _been_ trying. He’s stubborn.”

“It’s only the fourth day, Greg.”

"Look, John,” Greg said, leaning forward. “I’d love to spend all my time focusing on this one boy who clearly needs help. But I have other campers to work with.”

John knew he would regret it the moment he said it. “I can try and help him.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. Then the other one. “You want to help him?”

“That’s almost exactly what I said.”

“What makes you think he’ll respond to you?”

“Absolutely nothing,” John replied honestly. “But I think I should at least try.”

Greg stood up and clapped John on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, John Watson.”

A bright red blush spread across John’s cheeks, and he squirmed under the praise. “Thanks. Er, where can I find him?”

“Probably in his cabin,” Greg said. “He’s not the social type.”

After getting directions to the cabin, John set out in search of one Sherlock Holmes. The midday sun beat down between high leaves as John strode down the correct path. The camp was located somewhere deep in the English countryside, where everything was peaceful and quiet all the time. It was a far cry from the constant, frenetic movement of London. John wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not.

His gut churned the closer he got, and it took a great deal of effort to stop clenching his hand. His experiences with Harry didn’t make him particularly excited to try his hand at another tortured teenager.

 _It’s worth a shot,_ he thought. _You’re here to help people, not just Harry._

Boys’ Cabin 2 loomed up before him, its dark wood melding with the shade around it. John hopped up the two steps and knocked three times before opening the door and peering inside.

"Hello?” he ventured. “Anyone home?”

Despite it being rather bright outside, the interior of the cabin was gloomy. There was an overhead light that could be switched on during nighttime, but it had been left off. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and John could spot a pair of pants dangling off a bedpost. All beds were empty, though unmade.

All except one, that is.

“Go away,” a lumpy shape at the far end of the cabin said. “You have no right to bother me right now.”

John stepped the rest of the way into the cabin, letting the door thud shut behind him. “Are you Sherlock?”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but it was as though the lump moved in on itself. “Who wants to know?”

Feeling a bit bolder, he moved further in. He made it past the first two beds before answering. “I’m John. My friend Greg said he was worried about you.”

The lump that was Sherlock made a scoffing noise. “He’s not worried. He’s irritated. There’s a difference. A rather big one too.”

John continued on past the next two beds. That wasn’t a dismissal. “Well, either way, he wants to know you’re taken care of.”

Sherlock scoffed again. “‘Taken care of.’ How patronizing.” His voice was slightly muffled from the assortment of blankets covering him, but John could hear the spiteful tone through it all.

He winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t -”

"It’s fine. I wouldn’t expect any less from a first-time counselor.”

John was halfway past the third set of beds now, but he froze. “How’d you know it’s my first time?”

In the near-darkness, he could’ve sworn he saw a sliver of pale skin as a head turned in his direction. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk to you or Greg or anyone. I’m completely fine, and I don’t need anybody’s help. So you might as well leave and find another poor sod to save.”

He was nearly at the last bed – Sherlock’s bed – so he moved forward the last few steps to stand at the foot of it. Sherlock had drawn all the blankets around himself, despite it being sweltering outside. The only part of him that John could see was a riot of dark curls and a flash of white skin underneath it.

"Look, Sherlock,” he said. “You’re already stuck here for seven weeks. Regardless of whether or not you believe you need the help, someone who cares about you obviously does. So maybe you should just give it a go.”

The covers were abruptly thrown back as Sherlock emerged from underneath them. His hair was mussed, and his cheeks held a red tint, no doubt caused by the heat. Or anger, if the fire in his eyes were anything to go by. The eyes were actually what captivated John the most. They stood out in the semi-darkness, pale, ethereal things. Right now, they were furious. Furious and glassy, the kind of glassy that came from being sick.

John couldn’t help but wonder what they would look like with happiness.

"You’re here for two reasons,” Sherlock said bluntly. “The first is you want to be a doctor when you grow up, so you figure this is a good place to start training. And of course, it’ll look good on uni applications, and considering where you grew up, you need all the help you can get. The second is a far more personal reason. You have a sibling here, a sister. She’s here because of you, because you looked into it and convinced your mother to send her here. Your mother followed your suggestion because you’re the only man in the house, your father having died a few years ago, and she doesn’t know how to handle your sister’s habit. You came to watch over her progress, though it must be annoying to not have direct access to her. Even if you did, I doubt she’d talk to you. She rather hates you right now.”

John was dizzy. He’d been so focused on keeping up with the rapid stream of words that he didn’t realize Sherlock had stopped until almost a minute had passed. The dark-haired boy stared at him defiantly, waiting for him to respond. His peculiar eyes narrowed ever so slightly the longer it took John to speak.

"That was… amazing.”

Any sort of fire or challenge leaked out of Sherlock like air from a punctured balloon. He seemed confused now, which was something John doubted he had much experience with.

"Amazing?” Sherlock repeated.

"Yeah. _Yeah,_ oh my God. How’d you know all that?” John moved around the bed so he could sit on the end. Sherlock stiffened and scooted back against the headboard.

“I observed. That’s all.”

“That’s _all_? You make it sound like it’s so simple, yet I don’t know a single thing about you. How can you tell stuff about me?”

Sherlock looked wary. He was staring at John like he was a newly discovered animal. John was beginning to wonder if, in a way, he was.

"I can deduce things,” Sherlock said. “I could tell it’s your first year as a counselor because you’ve come out of your way to help someone who isn’t one of your charges. Older counselors don’t do that. Also, your tone of voice when you came in suggested that you had no idea what you were doing. And your shirt is brand new.”

"What else?” John leaned forward, not wanting to miss a single word. Sherlock’s wariness seemed to lessen slightly, though he still looked dumbfounded. “How’d you know I want to be a doctor?”

"The fact that you’ve gone out of your way to help me tells me you have a strong caregiving instinct. What’s more, you take this camp seriously. Some counselors only do it to appease their parents, or they figure it’ll look good for uni. You keep your shirt clean because you want to look professional. You want to do a good job. Also, you didn’t go away the first time I told you, though you probably wanted to. A doctor has to have patience.”

“And my family?” This was the part that astounded John the most. It’d felt a gut punch to hear everything laid out so candidly, but he couldn’t help but be amazed. He half "Your shoes are badly scuffed, and your shorts have a hole in the pocket. If your family had more money, you’d have gotten new clothes for the summer. You mentioned earlier that I’m here because someone cares about me. Most people wouldn’t phrase it that way. They’d say I have a problem, or I need professional help. But you went the family route, which led me to believe you care about someone like me.” He paused. “Your sister is also in my therapy group.”

"Really? You know Harry?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not like we’re mates or anything. She mentioned you yesterday, said you’re the reason she’s here. And on the first day, she talked about your dad.”

John looked away. He still remembered how Sherlock said Harry hated him. He couldn’t really blame her. Because of him, she couldn’t spend one last summer with her friends before university. After their dad died, she’d always yelled at John for trying to replace him. It wasn’t that John wanted to be her dad, but there were things he had to do to keep the family afloat. And in some cases, that included making sure she didn’t find her demise at the end of a bottle.

"Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s incredible.”

Sherlock was still watching him with a baffled expression. He’d drawn his knees to his chest, and John suddenly realized that he was quite scrawny. The thickness of the blankets had initially made John think he was bigger, but Sherlock was thin.

“You really think so?” Sherlock tilted his head as he studied John. He squirmed a bit under the boy’s careful gaze, though not out of any real discomfort.

"I do.” John frowned. “Do people not think that?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “They normally curse and call me names.”

He said it so matter-of-factly. John was amazed.

"What sort of names?”

Sherlock shrugged. “‘Freak’ and ‘prick’ are common picks.”

It was irrational for John to get angry, but he could feel fury bubbling in the pit of his stomach. This boy was capable of something so awe-inspiring, and people called him _freak_ because of it? That didn’t seem fair.

"Well, I don’t think you’re a freak,” John declared.

A glimmer of a smile started on Sherlock’s face before it disappeared. He drew the blankets back up to his chin, his hands trembling.

“You’d be wrong.”

<><><> 

John stayed with Sherlock until it was time for lunch. Sherlock suspected the counselor would’ve sat with him if given the opportunity, but Sherlock snuck out of the dining hall when John wasn’t looking and went back to his cabin.

His whole body ached, and his hands shook so much he had trouble unbuttoning his trousers that night. It was quite obvious what was happening, but he steadfastly refused to admit it. He wasn’t an addict; he was completely fine.

However, when the next day rolled around and the other boys in his cabin stumbled off to breakfast, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to join them. It wasn’t unusual for him to skip meals (He’d skipped all of them the day before, after all), but this was different. The air around him felt heavy. Moving took too much effort. It was easier to just stay in bed and count all the different poisons he knew off the top of his head.

He wasn’t watching a clock, but he was still certain it was far too early for anyone to be returning to the cabin when he heard the door groan open. Steady, familiar footsteps traveled closer and closer until they stopped at the foot of his bed. Somehow, without even looking, Sherlock knew who it was.

“I noticed you weren’t at breakfast,” John said. “And dinner last night. And you left lunch without eating yesterday.”

“Not hungry.”

“That’s because you’re sick.” Sherlock felt the bed dip near his feet, and something solid brushed his ankle. He immediately pulled his legs away.

“I’m not sick,” Sherlock replied, curling his shaky hands into tight fists. “I can go a long time without eating.”

He imagined John shaking his head. “That’s not healthy. And you _are_ sick, Sherlock. You’re going through withdrawals. You can barely get out of bed, and you’re trembling. I can see it through the covers.”

It took a great deal of effort, but Sherlock managed to shove himself into a sitting position. John was watching him, his face devoid of any judgment or irritation. And was that – yes, Sherlock realized, it was. John’s blue eyes were sparkling with something akin to amusement. _Why is he amused?_ Sherlock wondered. It simultaneously annoyed him and made his stomach drop.

“I _can_ get out of bed,” Sherlock said, fully aware it made him sound like a child. That just made John’s amusement grow.

“I know you _can,_ ” John said. “But you don’t _want_ to. Depression and fatigue are two of the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m not going through withdrawals.”

The teasing glint in John’s eyes was extinguished, and Sherlock missed it immediately.

"Sherlock,” John said, his voice soft. It made Sherlock shiver, and not because of his symptoms. “I know it’s hard for you to admit, but you are. It’s okay. It won’t make you weak, or anything.”

There was something about John that compelled Sherlock to give in, to admit what he’d always known but never wanted to say. Maybe it was his earnest expression, or his damn sparkling eyes, or his quiet, sweet voice. Sherlock didn’t know. And that alone was an incredible thing. Sherlock didn’t _know_ what made John Watson so special, but he ached to find out.

“Why do you care?” Sherlock asked. He’d meant to have it come out viciously, like an insult. Caring wasn’t an advantage. John should know that, especially if he was to become a doctor. Instead, however, it came out meekly. Pitifully. Sherlock hated himself for it.

John’s lips parted in sympathy. Sherlock hated himself more.

"Because it’s the right thing to do. Because people _should_ care about other people. Because you remind me of my sister. Because you’re brilliant.” John shook his head. “I don’t really know why. All I know is that I do. And you may not be able to accept that, and that’s okay. Just know that I do.”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? This boy, this _good_ , golden boy cared about him and he barely knew him. How? Sherlock was insufferable, obnoxious, arrogant, practically a sociopath. How on earth could John care for someone like _him_?

John patted his knee, and Sherlock managed to not flinch away. He watched as John stood up and set down a plate on Sherlock’s nightstand. It held four slices of toast and an apple. Sherlock’s stomach growled.

“I’ll tell Greg you’re not feeling well,” John said. He gave Sherlock a sad smile and left the cabin, taking some of the room’s brightness with him. Sherlock stared at the door for a long time after, nibbling on a piece of toast.

John thought he was brilliant.

<><><> 

"You,” Greg announced, jabbing a finger in John’s direction, “are a miracle worker.”

John raised an eyebrow. Greg let the door to their cabin thud shut behind him and plopped down on the end of John’s bed. His mouth was curved upward in a triumphant grin, and John knew he should be pleased with himself, only he didn’t know why.

"Sorry, can’t say I’ve accomplished any miracles lately.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Greg insisted. “You made one happen with Sherlock.”

At the mere mention of that name, John’s interest spiked. He tried to keep his voice casual.

“Sherlock? What have I done with him?”

Greg rearranged his position so he was sitting cross-legged, facing John. “I should be asking you that one. The camp director pulled me aside on my way back here and said Sherlock has requested to switch group sessions to one-on-one sessions. With _you._ ”

Of all the thoughts that could jump into John’s head, the first was rather silly: _That’s something a person can do here?_ Then the reality of the situation hit him completely, and he was bombarded with a million other questions.  They made his head spin. One seemed louder than all the rest.

 _He wants sessions with_ me _?_

 _"_ Wait,” John said slowly, feeling hopelessly lost and not liking it. “So he’s not in your group anymore?”

“Nope,” Greg replied. “It’s rare that this happens, but occasionally a camper can get out of group if they make enough case for having private sessions. Or if their parents have enough money. Somehow, I suspect Sherlock has both.” He shook his head appreciatively. “I don’t know what you did, but you got through to him. I’m impressed.”

"But –” John frowned. When he’d left Sherlock earlier that day, the other boy still stood by his belief that there was nothing wrong with him. He seemed unlikely to want to talk to anyone on the matter, especially John.

_So… what changed?_

“Look,” Greg said, cutting off John’s unfinished thought. “Somehow, you made an impression on him. He trusts you. This is a huge deal, John.” He smiled. “You wanted the opportunity to help him. It seems to me like you’re off to a good start.”

Greg’s praise was like a shot of adrenaline, and John found himself smiling back. It didn’t matter how he’d done it, just that he had. And Greg was right. Within a minute of talking to Sherlock, John had felt an odd protectiveness toward the dark-haired boy. This brilliant, damaged boy who didn’t realize how special he was. (Not really, at least. John knew from what Greg said that Sherlock held himself in high regard, but John also knew that words could hurt and tear a person down, and the words of Sherlock’s peers had definitely done that.)

These sessions would give John the chance to see inside the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t know what he would find, but the possibilities were dizzying in how endless and exciting they were.

Tomorrow, he would become Sherlock’s personal counselor.

He wondered if he could become his friend too.

<><><> 

The sound of chairs scraping back signaled the end of John’s group session, but Sherlock made no move to get up. He was perched on the front steps of the building where John’s sessions were held, and he’d spent the last seventeen minutes listening to him gently coax campers into talking. Even if the one-on-one sessions turned out to be a phenomenally bad idea, they at least got Sherlock out of group. That was a victory in and of itself.

He still wasn’t completely sure why he asked the director to do this for him. He loathed the idea of talking to someone about his “problem” (Something that was losing its need for quotation marks more and more each day) and dealing with their insipid questions and advice. No one would understand, and he didn’t want to talk to anyone who didn’t understand. He dealt with those people every day of his life because he had to; he didn’t want to willingly submit himself to it.

But there was a part of Sherlock that hoped (traitorous, awful hope) that John would be different. He was already different in the way he’d complimented Sherlock instead of insulting him. That alone was a shocking, but not unpleasant discovery. But there was more to it. John treated him like a real person, not a burden or a freak. He spoke to Sherlock in a kind manner, with sparkling eyes and a gentle smile. Sherlock had been unable to think of anything else for the past two days.

It was almost as though – dare he think it – John _liked_ him.

Sherlock tried to banish the idea from his mind, but it had already taken hold, and once you give an idea a home, you can’t kill it. There was a chance John Watson liked him, and it made Sherlock breathless.

The teens in John’s group filed out, skirting Sherlock and moving off down different paths. Sherlock watched them all go, learning everything there was to know about them.

“I wasn’t expecting you to get here so early,” John said, finally emerging from the building. Sherlock slowly turned his head and looked up at him. The sun made his hair shine, and he was smiling at him. Sherlock’s mouth went dry.

“I had nothing better to do,” he replied.

"Okay then. So what do you want to do now?”

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t have something in mind? A plan?”

John hopped down the front steps and stood in front of Sherlock. He kept his expression casual, though Sherlock could see a flicker of anxiety.

“I thought I’d let you choose. Since this is about you, and all.” His cheeks reddened. “And this is my first time doing this, remember? I don’t really have anything to go off of.”

Somehow, Sherlock found this endearing. “Let’s go to the lake then.”

John's smile returned immediately, and he set off down the path leading to the lake. Sherlock got up and hurried after him. Within a few steps they were walking in sync, their arms occasionally hitting each other.

“How are you feeling?” John asked. The question made Sherlock instinctively scowl, though he answered as politely as he could.

“I’m fine.”

He was facing straight ahead, but he still saw John give him a sidelong glance. “Your hands are still a bit shaky.”

Sherlock clasped his hands together, his knuckles turning white. “Excellent observation.”

“I’m just saying.” John paused. “How hard was it for you to get out of bed today?”

 _Unbearably so,_ Sherlock thought. He shrugged.

“I could’ve met you at your cabin,” John said. “If it would’ve been easier.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said dismissively. “It wasn’t that hard.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Far off, kids could be heard shouting as they played football, and up above birds chirped. Sherlock kicked a rock and watched it skidder down the path.

“You know, Sherlock,” John said. “You don’t have to hide things from me, I’m here to support you, to be your confidant. You can tell me anything.”

His offer almost made Sherlock halt in his tracks. Most of the time, people were telling him to say _less._ No one had ever offered to listen to him. For a second, Sherlock honestly wondered if there was a second meaning to John’s words that he was missing.

"There’s nothing to tell,” he said finally. He expected John to drop it, or maybe give a half-hearted insistence that Sherlock not be afraid to speak his mind. Instead, John laughed.

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why is that hard to believe?”

“You can’t honestly tell me you don’t have stories to tell. For one thing, everyone at this camp has a story, whether they want to admit it or not.” John looked at him fully, grinning. “And you can’t have a name like _Sherlock Holmes_ and not have some kind of story behind it. How’d your parents even come up with that anyway? I’ve never heard it before.”

This wasn’t the first time someone had drawn attention to his name, but it was definitely the first time it was done with genuine curiosity. For some reason, it touched Sherlock.

“Sherlock is actually my middle name,” he admitted. “My parents thought they were being clever by giving me an archaic name.”

“So what’s your full name?”

It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” His eyes widened. He’d never told anyone the whole of it.

John let out a low whistle. “That’s a mouthful. Mine’s boring. John Hamish Watson.” He made a face. “I hate the name Hamish.”

“At least it’s not Mycroft.”

John laughed. “ _Mycroft_? No way. That can’t possibly be a real name.”

Sherlock found himself smiling. “It’s my brother’s.”

That only made John laugh harder. “Wow. That’s fantastic.” He chuckled to himself for another minute before looking back over at Sherlock. “So can I call you Will?”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said immediately. “Sherlock is fine.”

“Good, because I prefer Sherlock,” John said, shoving his hands into his pockets. Sherlock could see his pinkie finger through a hole in it. “It’s more unique. Shows how special you are.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot. “You think I’m special?”

John’s eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud. He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye before speeding up a bit. “Here we are. The lake.”

Sherlock looked ahead and saw that they had indeed reached the lake. A small group of campers splashed each other in the shallows, and a few girls were tanning on the shore. The sun was high in the sky, making the lake surface glitter. It was kind of beautiful, if Sherlock was forced to admit it.

"So,” John said, clapping his hands together. “What do you want to do?”

There was a dock that stretched out onto the lake. Sherlock nodded towards it. “Let’s sit there.”

John followed him out to the very end. Sherlock sat down and took off his trainers before letting his feet dangle into the water. A moment later, John’s pale feet joined his, causing the water to ripple around him.

"It’s beautiful out here,” John said. Sherlock sniffed.

“If you’re into this sort of thing.”

John snickered. “You’re a city boy, aren’t you?”

Sherlock moved his foot this way and that, watching the tiny waves he created. “No. My family lives in Sussex.”

“Oh. I just assumed you were from London. You don’t seem like the country type.”

“Why, because I’m here for cocaine use and it’s easier to get ahold of it in the city?”

John seemed startled by his question. “No. I just meant that you clearly don’t like nature, so maybe you’re not accustomed to being around it. That’s all.”

An unfamiliar, disgusting feeling crept into Sherlock’s stomach. “Oh.” Guilt. That was it. But why was he guilty?

“Sorry,” John said. “I don’t like to assume things about people. It’s not fair to them. I hate it when people do it to me.”

Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes sweeping over John. He had nice posture, his back straight like he’d been trained to sit properly. His sandy hair stood up in little spikes here and there, a result of him constantly messing with it. (And a bit of product, Sherlock noted) His eyes were facing forward, though Sherlock knew he was aware of Sherlock watching him.

"What do people usually assume about you?”

A wry grin appeared on John’s face. “You can’t ‘deduce’ it?”

“I’d rather you tell me.”

John finally turned to face him. Sherlock twined his hands together, willing their shakiness to subside. His stomach felt just as knotted as they were. The words coming from his mouth felt foreign in nature, but not unwelcome.

“People tend to think,” John said slowly, “that I’m just another poor sod who stumbles through school, gets drunk on the weekends, and has every girl begging me to shag them.”

 _He’s right,_ Sherlock thought. _Assumptions aren’t fair._

"None of that is true,” he said. John smiled tightly. “I mean, I don’t know about the girl thing, but I know you’re rather intelligent and you stay away from alcohol because of your sister.”

John shrugged, the movement tight and jerky. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t really care what people think.”

 _Liar._ Sherlock chose not to say it aloud.

John kicked the water, sending a cold spray up in the air. Sherlock flinched.

“Okay, now you’ve got to tell me something about you,” John said. “You know too much about me.”

Sherlock sighed. “Like what?”

John cocked his head. “Like… what your childhood was like.”

“It was dull and dragged on for too long.”

John shoved him playfully. “I meant more than one sentence.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but still thought through his answer. “I suppose it wasn’t that bad. I didn’t get on well with the other children –” John choked back a laugh at that, and Sherlock glared at him. “- So I spent a lot of time by myself.”

"Your brother didn’t play with you?”

Sherlock automatically tensed. “He did when I was really young. We were – close, for a time. And then he grew up and turned into a prick.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock waited for John to press him more, but was relieved when he didn’t. So relieved that he allowed himself to tell John another vital part of his childhood.

“I had a dog too.”

"Lucky! I’ve always wanted a dog, but we couldn’t afford one. Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” Sherlock answered, gripping his hands tighter. “His name was Redbeard.”

When John spoke again, his voice was softer. “Was he your best friend?”

There was no judgement in the question. Sherlock let his grip loosen.

“Yes.” He paused. “When I was eleven, he got sick. There was nothing to be done.” He closed his eyes against the memory. “I sat with him when… when…”

Something soft and warm landed on his hands. He opened his eyes to see it was John’s hand.  His expression exuded compassion and understanding.

"Your hands are still shaking,” he said.

Sherlock swallowed. He untangled his hands and let John slip his fingers between Sherlock’s. John squeezed, a soft pump of pressure. He never looked away from Sherlock.

Sherlock had to admit the view really was beautiful.

<><><> 

For the rest of camp, Sherlock and John were practically inseparable. They spent every minute they could together, hiking through the woods, swimming in the lake, or just hanging out in Sherlock’s cabin. Sometimes Sherlock conducted experiments and John sat by and watched. One afternoon, they took a canoe out onto the lake, and Sherlock tried to see if he could spot any fish. He leaned so far forward that he fell out of the canoe. Once John had stopped panicking, he laughed the rest of the day.

Sherlock's withdrawals got worse the second week, but after several days of John sitting with him, he was able to muster enough strength to leave the cabin. After that, he got better with each passing day, though he still had what John had started calling “Danger Days,” when his symptoms where truly bad and his arm ached for the pressure of a needle.

He still hadn’t admitted there was anything wrong, and John never pushed. John had a feeling Sherlock knew deep down. He was a smart boy, he had to know. But if he didn’t want to confirm it, John wouldn’t force him.

Bit by bit, John was learning more and more about the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. He learned that Sherlock used to want to be a pirate, though he changed his mind when he was ten and became interested in being a detective. He learned that the students at Sherlock’s primary school had mocked him every day, and that some of the boys would beat him up. He learned that Sherlock had never fancied a girl, and that he didn’t want to.

In turn, John told Sherlock more about his dad. He told him about what made him want to be a doctor. He told him about juggling school, rugby, and working to keep his family moving. He told him everything there was to know about John Watson, and with every new anecdote, John expected Sherlock to drop him and find someone far more interesting.

But that never happened. Sherlock stayed by John’s side, his curious eyes always focused on him. Sherlock asked him question after question, and had him assist in collecting things for various experiments. It was easy to forget John was a counselor and Sherlock was a camper. They just… were what they were. Steadily moving up the road to best friends, with something else lurking on the sides.

The something else was what baffled John even more than Sherlock’s unerring interest in him. John had known from the first moment he met Sherlock that Sherlock was beautiful. With eyes and cheekbones like that, how could anyone think he wasn’t?

At first, John just chalked it up to a bit of lust. He hadn’t had a girlfriend in a while, and liking boys was still new territory. Of course he’d be attracted to the gorgeous boy he was around almost every waking moment.

But slowly and surely, John felt something else grow. He pictured it as a ball of light in his chest, right beside his heart. It first formed when he’d held Sherlock’s hand on the dock. He’d expected a bit of resistance, or maybe Sherlock shying away from even the slightest touch. But instead, Sherlock had _initiated_ it. He’d turned his hand just so, giving John the chance to slip right in and connect them.

From that moment on, John allowed himself to indulge in little touches here and there. When Sherlock was laid up in bed with the shakes, John wiped his curls back from his sweaty for head and let his fingertips linger. When they sat side by side in the mess hall, John pressed their arms together. When Sherlock had fallen out of the canoe, John kept his arm around his shoulders for a while after, claiming it was to keep Sherlock warm. (It wasn’t.)

The ball of light grew in size and intensity every day. By the end of the summer, John was convinced it wouldn’t fit in his chest anymore. He was honestly surprised it hadn’t burst out of him yet, tearing him apart completely.

Was he in love with Sherlock? It was easy to dismiss, but the second he did it he wondered if he was wrong in doing so.

Because his admiration – appreciation, adoration, no word seemed right – went beyond physical aspects. Sherlock was, as he’d known from the beginning, brilliant. His mind was unlike anything John had ever seen, a constantly moving and evolving powerhouse. John was in awe of him.

Sherlock was witty, and clever, and – to John’s surprise and delight – quite caring. He hid it well behind carefully constructed barriers, but John had persisted and broke through them and discovered the biggest heart in the world.

During the third week, John had tried to approach Harry and check up on her. What started as a few cautious and polite questions ended in screamed insults and his sister’s retreating back. John had been heartbroken, to put it plainly. She was his older sister, and all he wanted to do was help her. Clearly, he wasn’t doing a great job.

Sherlock had been by his side during it, of course. Sherlock watched Harry walk away, watched John crumble in on himself. John waited for the wry comment, or the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps walking away too. Instead, he felt a gentle pressure on his hand as Sherlock took it with his. John’s breath hitched, and he clutched Sherlock’s hand tightly. Nothing else was said.

As the last week of camp approached, John found himself dreading it. Leaving camp meant leaving Sherlock, and there was nothing John wanted less. Sherlock was a fixture in his life now, and John didn’t want to let go.

"You’re thinking too loud,” Sherlock said. John blinked and looked around. Sherlock was currently stretched out on a towel on his stomach, a thick book lying open in front of him. He was eyeing John quizzically, as though John’s thoughts had disturbed his reading.

"Sorry?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s fine. You can’t help it.” He paused, staring down at his book. “What were you thinking about?”

John hesitated before answering. Somehow, _“I was thinking about you and how brilliant you are and how I might be in love with you,”_ seemed like the wrong response, no matter how true it was.

"I was thinking about how we only have a week left here.”

Sherlock flipped to the next page. “Something that you’ve been aware of for ages. How fascinating.”

John ripped up some grass and threw it at him. “Not everyone can have nonstop genius thoughts like you.”

"Nonstop genius thoughts?”

"I’m aware of how stupid that was, yes.”

Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile before returning to their usual stoic line. His eyes darted back and forth as he read, and John took the opportunity to watch him. He wished he had a memory like Sherlock’s so he could remember every beautiful detail. Like how Sherlock’s eyes actually didn’t have a definitive color, and how when he was focused, he tugged at his curly hair.

"You’re staring at me.”

John turned bright red and looked away. “No I’m not.”

"Yes, _now_ you’re not.”

"Sorry.”

Sherlock’s voice turned soft. “It’s okay.”

All the way across the lawn, John could see Harry sitting with a group of girls. Occasionally he could hear a peal of laughter, and Harry would throw her head back. He could tell she was smiling. It left a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

He brought his knees to his chest. “I’m going to miss you.” They’d never addressed their impending separation, but now it was getting harder to ignore. John could see Sherlock freeze in the middle of turning a page. He forced himself to keep looking forward.

"It's not like we’re never going to see each other again,” Sherlock said. “I’m going to come to London was often as I can.”

"But that’s not the same as seeing you every day,” John pointed out.

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

John looked over at him in shock. “What?”

Sherlock's gaze was on his book. “I just mean – it’s best you don’t see me every day. You’ll probably get frustrated with me, or annoyed.”

"That’s not possible.”

"You don’t know that.”

“Well, you don’t know it either.”

It was the lamest rationale ever, but it shut Sherlock up. He went back to his book, and John went back to his internal debate over whether or not he was head over heels for the genius lying beside him.

<><><> 

The days continued to pass by until only twelve hours remained. At eleven o’clock the following morning, Mycroft would pick Sherlock up and bring him back home. He’d ask lots dull questions about Sherlock’s time away while deducing whether or not Sherlock had been fixed. They would arrive at the family home in Sussex, and Sherlock would be reintroduced to the monotony of his life.

At eleven o’clock the following morning, Sherlock would be pulled away from John.

Less than twelve hours left.

Sherlock crept through the woods, his footsteps sounding thunderous in the quiet darkness. He was supposed to be in his cabin, but he couldn’t stay away. The need to be with John for these final few hours burnt his skin and set him on fire. He hadn’t even entertained the idea that John would want to sleep instead of spend time with him. He prayed that wasn’t the case.

Human emotion had never been Sherlock’s strong suit, but if there was ever a time for him to immerse himself in it, it was this summer. John Watson had made him feel things he’d never known he could feel, and instead of hating it like Sherlock always thought he would, he’d loved it. Basked in it. Wished he could bottle it and bring it with him back home. John was his favorite person in the whole world, and he wanted everyone to know.

But first and foremost, John had to know.

A cacophony of snores could be heard from inside the male counselors’ cabin. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he pried the door open. The boy closest to the door turned over in his sleep, mumbling about pie. Sherlock rolled his eyes and crept forward.

John was easy to spot. He’d kicked his blankets off, and his face was turned upwards, so Sherlock could see him through the darkness. Stepping as lightly as he could, Sherlock moved to the side of John’s bed and knelt down.

"John,” he whispered. “ _John._ ”

John woke with a start, his head snapping around in search of the noise that woke him. When his eyes landed on Sherlock, the panic in them disappeared and was replaced by confusion.

"Sherlock? Wha’re you doing here?”

Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged. “Not here.”

It was a testament to how close they had become, for John slid out of bed willingly and shoved his feet into his pair of worn trainers. He followed Sherlock out of the cabin and down the path towards the lake. Moonlight seeping through the trees lit their way. For the whole walk, neither boy spoke. Words weren’t necessary.

Sherlock walked straight out onto the dock and sat down at the end after removing his shoes. Just like their first real day together, John followed suit.

“So,” he said finally, his voice clearer now that he was more awake. “Why are we out here?”

Sherlock had been thinking of this all day – all week, really – and he’d prepared exactly what he wanted to say. His heart was beating so fast, he was surprised he hadn’t gotten a heart attack. He clasped his hands together – no longer shaking – and took a deep breath.

"I took my first hit when I was thirteen,” he said, focusing on the water before him. “I’d read something online about how cocaine can make a person think more clearly, and I was in the middle of a difficult case. I wanted to prove to everyone that I could actually solve it, but I’d hit a dead end. I was desperate. So, I found a dealer willing to give me some stuff – not an easy task, let me tell you – and I injected it straight into my arm. I solved the case the next day.”

John was silent beside him. Sherlock almost wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then John shifted, sitting up straighter, and Sherlock continued with his story.

"I kept telling myself I had it under control, that I didn’t have a problem. Because I thought I was smarter than that. I truly thought I could stop myself from getting addicted.” He laughed bitterly. “I suppose that’s where I’m actually quite thick. I think I’m above these sort of things.

“Three months ago, I overdosed. I wasn’t on a case at the time. I just needed the high. I’d gotten into a fight with my parents, I hated the people I went to school with, and I wanted to get away. I gave myself too much and woke up in a hospital with my brother sitting beside me. The first thing he did when I was coherent enough to understand him was give me a pamphlet for this place.” He held out his hands. “And then I was shipped here.”

Silence descended on them. Sherlock pressed his hands together, waiting for the familiar twinge in his inner elbow that usually came from thinking about cocaine. Mercifully, it didn’t come.

John seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to continue, but when Sherlock didn’t, he spoke. “How are you feeling about it now?”

"I told Mycroft on the first day that I wouldn’t change, but –” He swallowed. “I don’t want to go back to that. I don’t want to _be_ like that anymore.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John’s hand drift towards his. Without hesitating, he reached over and met John halfway. Their hands linked together and rested on the dock between them. John’s thumb stroked Sherlock’s knuckles.

"I’m proud of you,” John said. “You’ve come a long way.”

"Because of you.”

John shook his head. “I just helped a bit. You did all the hard work yourself.”

Sherlock turned his body so he was facing John. “You don’t understand. You’ve done _so much._ If it weren’t for you, I’d likely go home tomorrow and get high again. I wouldn’t have this intense desire to change, to be better. This is all you.”

John squirmed under the praise. He gave Sherlock a quick, awkward smile.

"Don’t sell yourself short, Sherlock. A lot of this was possible because of you. You’re fantastic, beautiful, brilliant, and so incredibly strong. I always knew you could beat this if you set your mind to it. You can make the impossible possible.”

Sherlock felt like he was on fire. “Did – did you just call me beautiful?”

Realization crashed over John, and his whole body tensed like a taut violin string. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several times. He tried to pull his hand away, but Sherlock held on.

“I… might… have…” John said. “It just – it slipped out. It was an accident.”

“No one has ever called me beautiful before,” Sherlock said.

Seemingly getting a bit more confident, John replied, “Well that’s just not fair.”

How was it that John Watson had the power to take Sherlock’s breath away so thoroughly? It was like he’d fallen into the lake again and couldn’t find the surface. But in this instance, drowning didn’t seem so bad.

“So, you think I’m beautiful?”

John was staring up at the moon, but he slowly lowered his gaze down to Sherlock. Sherlock watched as John’s eyes traced his face, gliding over his jaw and smoothing over his forehead. He felt naked.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” John said, his voice so quiet Sherlock almost couldn’t hear it over the gentle lapping of the lake. “Simply stunning.”

There were so many things Sherlock could say to that, so many things he _should_ say, but the only think that came from his mouth was a meek “Oh.”

“Tomorrow we’ll go our separate ways,” John said, turning Sherlock’s hand over. “We don’t ever have to see each other again if we don’t want to. So I might as well tell you, since it’s already come out a bit, that I fancy you, Sherlock. Really and truly fancy you.”

Was this a dream? It had to be a dream. There’s no way John would say that to him and _mean_ it.

“Oh,” Sherlock said again. John smiled sadly.

“You don’t have to say anything. I wasn’t even going to, but I kinda ruined that for myself.”

 _But I_ do _have to say something,_ Sherlock thought. He couldn’t let John go another minute without thinking his feelings weren’t reciprocated. But words continued to elude Sherlock, his massive brain failing him for the first time.

Sherlock lifted John’s hand up to his mouth and kissed his palm. John’s eyes had gone wide, and when Sherlock’s lips made contact with his skin, he let out an “Oh” of his own.

"I –” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I, um, I –”

“Sherlock,” John murmured. “It’s okay.”

The water beneath them rippled as John moved closer, his foot dragging through the clear surface. Sherlock knew exactly where this was headed, and he leaned forward. John’s lips met their intended target, and Sherlock wanted to cry. He didn’t know what to do, how to move, if he should even move, so he remained still. John pressed gently, his mouth soft and warm. He brought his free hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock leaned into the touch.

Far too quickly, John pulled away. At some point during the kiss, Sherlock’s eyes had fallen shut, and he dazedly opened them to see John watching him with a worried and hopeful gaze.

“Was that – should I have not done that?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"No no, that was – that was good.”

“Good?”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Great.”

John started smiling. “Come on. Surely you can think of a better word for it.”

“I’m afraid you’ve rather slowed my brain down,” Sherlock admitted, feeling a bit foolish. John’s laugh made him feel better.

"Then I’m pleased. May I do it again?”

Sherlock didn’t give him an answer, instead simply leaning forward and capturing John’s mouth once more. John made a surprised noise that quickly morphed into a sigh as he parted his lips and let Sherlock explore his mouth.

Tomorrow they would be going their separate ways. The next time they’d see each other would be uncertain. But at that moment, under the moon and the stars, it didn’t matter.

They would find their way back to each other in the end.


End file.
